To Prove They's Still Alive
by equine02
Summary: Modern AU Race needed to escape his sister Paris and their life of crime- then he does, in a way he never figured on. Enter Jack Kelly. Not slash. (Horrible summery, but come on in for some Race whump, Jack withdrawals and plenty of feels:)
1. Recipe for Misery

**I just felt like writing this. Juvenile prison modern AU. I don't know how those things are inside, so I'm making it up. Sorry for plot holes and inaccuracies.**

 **Disclaimer: nyet, eto ne moya istoriya. Spasiba, dobre den. (Fun fact, yes, I do speak a little Russian:)**

Race's body ached as he climbed out of the car and watched it peel out of the dark parking lot. Another car pulled up and a man hopped out and tossed Race the keys. The woman with Race, Paris, stopped to glance at her watch and made a face that predicted a yawn, but it never came. She glanced at the tired teenager and smiled tightly.

Racetrack moved slowly as he followed her up a sidewalk, splitting off to get into the low dingy gold car, his fingers twitching inside of his leather jacket's pocket. Breathing the fumes of whatever it was they were going to have more of, Race felt his worry heighten against the pounding of his heart. Just a simple job. It was night. They were in New York state, in the wilderness, for God's sake? What could go wrong with that? They'd pulled it off a thousand times, and every time Paris, his older sister, would give him her real smile, and her ginger hair would frame her face and make her look so pretty and grown up, and so he couldn't say no when she put her arm around him and pointed to the wall, to the map. That moldy wet map had nearly twenty pins. And his sister was happy because of that. They ran their biggest operation through those points, and it was getting stronger every day.

But now, sitting in the dark with his fingers stroking the trigger of his gun, the fifteen-year-old felt the same angry pangs in his chest that made his lungs thirst for air. His palms were so sweaty there was no way he could shake hands. Would he have to shake hands with a crime lord?

But Paris knew what she was doing. And Race was the getaway man. He wouldn't have to do anything, and the gun was just for safety. He just stepped on the gas and steered. He'd done it a thousand times- tonight was no different. If only he could just believe that.

To calm himself as two other shadows joined Paris's and the man's, Race thought over the plan. Slash and Cherry would hold off intruders and give him the signal to start the engine (they couldn't risk the noise) while Paris and Andy talked to Spot Conlan. A trade would be established, the "goods" would be looked over…. Then the signal would come- two fingers coming quickly away from the forehead in a salute- given by Cherry. Slash would take the goods, Paris got shotgun, Slash and Andy would take the back to watch out route and Cherry would get in the car before them, but only because she was the youngest and only here because she was a sharpshooter, and too valuable to risk.

They'd gone over it a thousand times- _nothing to worry about Race-_

 **BANG**

Race's fingers stiffened on the wheel, and he ducked instinctivly as a window in the building to his left shattered. Three more shots were fired, and one smashed the windshield and caught him in the shoulder. He cried out in agony, barely able to turn the key to start the car. Paris and Slash came bounding out with Andy in tow, but Race didn't even notice Cherry wasn't there until they were screaming at him to drive. Almost to the end of the parking lot, he gritted his teeth and yelled over the firing and screeching of rubber, "I'm going back for Cherry!"

"'Tony, don't!" Paris yelled in her little brother's ear, "The bulls!"

Race felt like his mind was a ping-pong ball, racing around the corners of decision. He flung his wheel around and felt their back wheel left slightly and then slam on the pavement.

"The Bulls!" someone screamed in his ear. It could have been his sister, but it was probably her boyfriend Andy. At this point he didn't care less what the difference was. He just wanted to get Cherry back.

He saw her silhouette jerk as she fired shot after shot. Race winced as he drove closer and saw the splatter of blood on her pale face. She jumped into the car and Race straightened out, swerving to avoid a dumpster. But it was too late. Blue and red light imbued dread inside of him as the car had to come to a halting stop. He jerked a little as his wound began to bleed again, sending ribbond of pain down his arm. Just as the muffled voice of an officer reached his ears and time began to melt into itself, he could feel the blood all the way down to his fingertips. Hands moved his body, and someone called "Race!"

He smiled over the pain when he realized it was Cherry. But he didn't see her as he passed out, slumping into the safety and painless black.

…

Pain came slowly. He sensed it even unconscious, like some kind of tickle, but even more unpleasant, if that's possible.

"Run into a stop sign?" a thickly accented voice jeered from somewhere next to him- left or right, he couldn't remember. Swimming to the surface, he opened his eyes.

A shifting grey ceiling seemed to fall on him as he tried to sit up. Somewhere outside muffled voices made Race think of a movie. But it was too real and too painful to be interesting. He looked to his left. A wall. To the right. Another wall… but no, tinted glass. A young man, probably about two or three years older than himself waved with a brazen smile on his face. He stood close to the glass, a sketchbook of sorts in hand.

"Hiya."

"Hey," Race felt his accent thickening just by listening to this guy. He hated that accent, but now it could be an advantage. He let it loose, "I'se not supposed tah hear yah, right?"

"Nah. But I'se not complainin'." The grin flashed again, "Kelly, Jack Kelly."

"Racetrack." he glanced around, holding his shoulder, "Where is we?"

"The slammer, of sorts. Hospital for kids who got on the wrong side of dah laws at dah wrong place and time. If yah look behind me deres' a hundred uddah kids who we can't hear. Dey's laid up with… occupational accidents, if yah read me. Haven't figured out how tah talk tah dem."

"So youse set dis up? Dis microphone thing?"

"Nah, dat was already dere. Dis is bulletproof glass here," Jack knocked on it. Race could hear him, but he'd closed his eyes to fight the nausea as he slowly sat up.

"Hey, we'se goin' tah dah same place!"

"How do yah know?"

"Saw your papes."

"You got good eyesight," Race said incredulously, not quite understanding, but just wanting this Kelly character to shut up. The door to his room opened, and a doctor in a blue button-down and slacks came in followed by a security guard, who stood near the door.

Race tensed up as the man got closer.

"Who are you?" He lowered the accent to as neutral as possible.

"Dr. Jacobi." He said, "Hear you took a bullet."

"So I imagine. I take it you somehow didn't know dat?"

"Stop moving, lay back." He sighed, "No, I didn't, I just check after the surgeries, not perform them."

"Surgery?" Race's heart pounded.

"Yeah. You were pretty out of it."

Race tried to swallow the feeling that he was about to lose it. "I thought you guys weren't allowed to talk to us."

"You're a kid. They make exceptions for small talk around here." Jacobi whispered jokingly.

His voice hung in the air as he cut away the bandage. Race winced as his skin felt the cold air of the little room. His attempt to strangle a cry of pain made it all the more pitiful. The doctor pulled out a syringe.

Race moved away, "What is that?"

"Drugs. Painkillers, you should be happy."

Race got the gist. He was a drug dealer's accomplice, yes, but he hated the stuff. All it ever brought him was worry. He had panic attacks thinking about it. He moved away from the doctor.

"Don't give that to me."

"Why not? It'll help."

"Don't touch me."

"Afraid of needles?"

"No." Race looked away.

The doctor suddenly made an incredulous sound, "You don't mean to tell me you're afraid of what's inside!"

Race didn't reply. He felt himself shaking, his heart picking up. He tried to get up, to move away from the man, to move away from the drug.

"It's not addictive." The man's was gentle now. "Not if you only take it once."

"I've been clean for months. Once is all it takes." His voice shook, he felt his accent slipping through, "I don't want it."

"Okay." The syringe disappeared. Race laid back and hid his face in his pillow, so no one would see the tears.

After the man left, Race heard Jack's quiet voice, "dat was really brave, kid."

Race laughed dryly at the irony. He was terrified of the stuff. He glanced at Jack. He looked guilty. Race saw him rubbing his arm, saw the marks.

"How long for you?"

"Uhh," Jack laughed nervously, "Three hours." He sank down on the edge of his bed. Race felt his eyes widen. Jack would be experiencing withdrawals, and Race had to watch. Jack looked up at the younger kid, and seeing his face, said, "It's okay. I've lived through it before. Twice." His short laughter turned to stifled sobs. "M' sorry." He mumbled. The intercom flared with static. Race breathed deeply, "It's ok. You'll do great." he offered weakly.

"I shoulda already done that. I'se tryin' not tah think about it, yah know? Tryin' tah draw pretty places… New Mexico," Jack mumbled, shrugging. His eyes closed, "I'm scared."

He climbed onto the bed and curled into a ball, facing away from Race with the notebook clutched to his chest.. The sudden change of emotions scared Race. He couldn't think of what to say. So he didn't.

…

The next few days were hell. People came in and out of Jack's room. Sometimes he was coherent enough to say things, but mostly he just slept and shook and cried. Sometimes he asked for "more, please, just a little." Race blocked out his voice and tried to focus on what to do next. He couldn't talk to Jack; they'd figured out how to cut off the intercom.

Race just wanted to see Cherry. Was she okay? He pictured her wavy brown hair and perfect green eyes. He wanted to hug her and make sure she was okay, and she was going to go make a better life. But he wasn't even sure he could.

...

Four months later, after a miraculously quick trial, and a fast recovery, Race followed Jack's path to the Ryan Emerson-Farthing Center for Juvenile Delinquents- the infamous REF center, or Refuge. Ryan Emerson-Farthing, whoever he was, wasn't around when they got there. Race smirked at the thought as he was taken down to the dorms. There were no girls. He wouldn't see Cherry until they both wiped the slate clean and made their way back to normal. Or at least the closest thing to it. Before Jack had left, he'd run into Race in a hall at the hearing. As they passed, heavily guarded, he whispered, "Don't be a stranger." That felt impossible now.

He was sent to the dorm labeled "Pulitzer-Hearst."

Down the long rows of bunks, he searched for Slash, or maybe someone he used to know. Andy was too old to be sent here, but maybe there was someone…. He felt a nudge in his ribs, and the guard with the name tag Morris Delancey pointed to an empty bottom bunk. He sat down and waited for something to happen. But they just left, all the guards and assistants and everyone he was so afraid of. He was scared of these boys, but at least he was one of them.

As he laid down, his hand went into his shirt and traced the skin under his collar bone until he it the scar. It still hurt, but the pain was solid, and good.

Above him someone was turning restlessly, rustling and moving the bunk. He didn't stop for twenty minutes. Race finally knocked on the metal above his head, "Hey, cut it out!"

"Sorry," the voice murmured. Almost to himself, he said, "Tryin' to figure out what tah do with my hands…"

Race knew that voice. He exhaled in wonder.

"Nice tah hear from yah again, strangah."

 **So? Thoughts? Should I keep going? Thanks for reading! Review please, if you get the chance!**


	2. The Refuge

**So I know I barely just put out the last chapter, but I really wanted to write more (thanks for the inspiration Somedayonbroadway!) here we go! Let me know if you have any ideas, because I'm flying blind:) Thank you to my other reviewers! I love seeing your kind words in my inbox. It always makes my day!**

It was a good thing Race found Jack, because Jack knew the tricks of the trade. He knew how to coax the guards into letting them sit on each others bunks, which they weren't allowed to do, at least not two at a time. Race grew to understand Jack in a way that was just as perplexing as life itself. Jack's voice could be kind, but his eyes weren't, at least not anymore, but they might have been at one time. His gestures were quick and easy to follow. When he talked he had a habit of gesturing, and swinging his arms around to paint the image of whatever he was saying into the air. It made people look at him funny, but Race liked it. It was part of Jack Kelly. It made the grueling days of counseling, school, and service work melt together in the best kind of way.

So Race settled into life at the Refuge. The life was tough for a guy who liked to walk free on the streets, but not as bad as some places Race had been, not yet anyway. When he was about twelve they'd holed up in an old abandoned car factory from the thirties, and he remembered sleeping on the floor in the freezing cold while his sister and Andy stood outside smoking. They'd stayed there for almost a month, and he got really sick, but Paris hadn't wanted to leave. That was a year before they'd met Cherry. He remembered when they first met her, she was twelve, and she had her dark brown hair swept out of her face and tied back with a thick black strap that hung in two tails down her back. She had on a leather jacket and cargo pants with lace up boots. Cherry was an orphan who had learned under the best and was a first-class sniper at age 11. They had been lucky to get her. She was pretty short at the time they first met- about 4'2, but maybe she seemed shorter because Race was almost 5'5 at the time. But she was still intimidating with her assault rifle and stern eyes. She grew quickly though, and recently Race wondered if she was taller than him now. He'd always wanted to stand back to back and have someone tell them, not because he cared, but because he wanted to feel her shoulders against his and hear her laugh when they tripped awkwardly, like normal teens. Not like juvenile _delinquents_.

But the Refuge was taking the image of her face slowly out of his mind. She was fifteen in August, he reminded himself. But it was no good because there were no calendars here. And Race slowly sank lower and lower into his darkness, missing the one person he'd never been afraid of.

...

It was one day that Race estimated must have been in April or June, when the classes finishing up for the year and all the guys were clueless as to what they would be doing when an announcement was made. An assembly was called, and Jack and Race stood shoulder to shoulder in the line-up. Morris and Oscar Delancey stood nearby.

"Order, please," said the man who stood in front of them, "There will be visiting hours today from 1:30 to 3:45. It is-" the man glanced at his watch, "-1:23. Please remain in the hall if your name is called. If it is not you will return to your dormitory immediately."

Jack glanced at Race with eyes that probed his mind. Race's face must have been petrified.

"What's thah mattah?" Jack hissed, but one of the Delancey's jabbed him in the ribs and whispered for him to shut it.

"Camron Rolley," the man began reading, "Donovan Locke, Andrew Parker, Patrick Blink, John Sullivan, Harrison Merro, Anthony Higgins..." the man's voice seemed to fade. Race felt his blood rushing into his ears, and he swayed a little. Jack's arm steadied him discreetly.

Suddenly the boys were filling out, and Jack drew away. Race stared at him in horror. He couldn't leave. He couldn't be all alone. The older boy avoided his eyes.

How did that feel? Race was afraid of whoever this was who'd come to see him… but Jack just wanted someone to come. Race felt the dullness and sadness sweep over him anew. His feelings were a mess, and he didn't want to let the outside world see his pale skin, and the dark circles under his eyes or the way you could see his ribs through the white tee-shirts they had to wear.

Jack disappeared into the sea of heads and Race was lead to sit down. He stared into his hands, which rested on the table in front of him. He stayed like that until he felt the table move as someone sat down across from him.

"Hey kid. You look like hell." It sounded like something Paris would say, but it was a man's voice, a voice he knew and hated.

Andy's voice was low pitched, like he was whispering without the breathiness. Race winced at the smell of weed. He flinched away. Paris didn't know her boyfriend. She didn't know what he'd done to Race, and well, Race was too cowardly to admit it. He'd told himself a thousand times that was why he hadn't said anything. But Paris wouldn't care. She was off on bigger things, like building her careful web of lies to make an empire.

He felt something being pushed in an attempt of discreteness into his hands.

The sight of the white power made him gag. He blinked the tears that wanted to fall.

"How'd yah get dis in here?" he turned it around in his hands so as not to show Andy that he really wanted to burn it. Something in his mind chanted, _taste it! Tonight! It won't hurt anymore, coward._

"That's my specialty, you idiot. And yours. Speaking of which, how much longer you got? Paris and I slipped the bulls. We got off with two months."

"How's dat?" Race looked up from under his brows, confused.

"There were… others to take the blame." Andy raised his eyebrows. He meant him and Slash and Cherry.

"You dirty little son of a-"

"Don't get nasty, Race. I brought you a gift."

"Yeah, but why?"

"Because you kept our secret so well. I thought you'd be grateful."

"I can't garuntee-" Race cut himself off. He looked to the side, away from the angry gunmetal grey eyes.

Andy laughed, "I know you can. Because if you don't there are people who will meet our friend Spot, and it won't be like that night was supposed to be, I can promise you that."

"What 'appened that night anyway?" Race clenched his fists. Sweat poured down his back. "We agreed to meet. 'You scab on us?"

"Nope. I would never," Andy flashed his crooked smile at Race. It turned bitter, "Spot didn't want to meet, he wanted to take us down. He knew we were a threat, and we were too stupid to see it. The drug money paid the bail, ironically," his voice lowered even more, and his eyes surveyed the wall of guards against the perimeter of the room, "which just goes to show you that the justice system had better tighten up."

Race didn't want to know how he'd managed that. He averted his eyes. The man's face was making him sick.

"Anyway, Cherry went down-"

"Whad'aya mean?" Race straightened. His heart jumped against his ribcage.

"Ooh, you got a crush, Higgins?" Andy taunted.

"Tell me what happened." Race gritted out.

"By 'down' I mean paralyzed. They can't even put her in jail. But she broke down enough to tell them that she's got forty-nine confirmed kills. And that, my friend, puts her in a rough spot." Andy raised his eyebrows. Race was incredulous when he smiled, "Which takes care of our Cherry accessory."

"You mean you was gonna kill her," Race realized.

"Just her?" Andy smirked, "Why do that? Why give up our Bonnie and Clyde moment?" Andy came close to him, breathing down his neck, "It was fun while it lasted, but I ain't gonna let you get between me and Maxine. She's much prettier."

The use of his sister's real name made Race light up on fire. He was done. If he got out, he was finished. Might as well walk out the front door and off the Brooklyn Bridge, wherever Brooklyn was. But first he might just visit Spot Conlan and wring his pretty neck. After he drowned Andy, kissed Cherry and set Slash to a new life. And deserted this stupid operation. Paris had held him long enough. Andy's secret had been held long enough. No more.

Race was being pulled off the top of his sister's boyfriend before he even knew it. The man's face was bloody and broken, and Andy was barely breathing, but it felt so good. Race's knuckles screamed in joyful agony. He barely realized he'd tucked those drugs away, sure to be caught. It was meant to be taken in little bits, to last for weeks. Well if this was playing out the way he thought it was, he might as well suck it all down tonight. Why suffer withdrawals when you could end the pain in one go?

…

Yep, this place was illegal.

They'd been holding off, but tonight he was given the "Treatment." Tonight he was basted. Thrown against a wall. But they didn't search him. The goons just threw him back into his dorm. Jack was still awake, even though it was past midnight. When the guards left and locked the doors, Jack jumped down and took a good look at Race.

"Oh my God, dey neahly killed yah!" He put a hand on his friend's chest, gazing over his broken body in shock.

"Kelly, I'm ok." He murmured. Tears leaked out of his bright blue eyes.

"I don't know what hell you've lived in, but Race, dis isn't what "ok" is."

"I think I've got it good." He sucked in a breath, "Still have mah sistah, in a way. An' Cherry and Slash. They's good to me."

"But good isn't enough, is it?"

"I'm alone a lot. It does get sad and cold." Race looked at Jack, "I don't wanna be like dis. You know."

"An' dat's not ok. No one oughta be sad and cold and by himself, not evah."

"So what is it? What's 'ok'?"

"Clean, open spaces. On yah feet. Jus' a man by himself can't hurt anybody but himself. But a bruddah can be nice. And you wasn't by yourself all dah time, was you?"

"I nevah have been. I'se always being crushed by some-" he cut himself off, turning his head away from Jack. "What about you?"

"Why now?" Jack wanted to know.

"Now's as good as tomorrah, cept tomorrah might be warmer and brighter, so lets take the bitter wit' dah dark."

Jack smiled through the dim lighting as he helped Race out of his shirt.

"I don't know what it's like not to be alone," he smiled bitterly, "I was just a kid. My pop was a drunk. He used to give me beer and whiskey, when I was a little kid. I didn't undahstand. My mom tried tah stop him, but he beat her. Sos I wasn't home very much when I got older, an' dey beat up on my kid bruddah. He got sick, and it gave 'im a gimp leg. I wasn't dere for im. An' he drank himself tah death when he was fourteen. I don' know if he survived that last bit, but I couldn't stick around. I hit the trail, I left Pennsylvania and came 'ere." Jack forced himself to focus on lifting the fabric over the thin boy's body without hurting him even more. Once it was off, he assessed the damage and took a plastic cup of water- they were allowed one each night- and dipped the shirt in it, washing the many abrasions and cuts. He didn't want to continue his story, but his voice seemed to be taking Race's mind off the pain. "Well I didn't wanna feel anymore. I was so lonely... I, uh, I eventually got put in fostah care when dey found me. But dey sent me tah counselors, and I hated it. I hated bein' trapped, questioned. So I, uh, I ran away. Started doin' drugs. I didn't wanna remember, but I didn't wanna be like _him,_ " he recalled hatefully. He felt Race's eyes searching his face. "I guess I thought Brooklyn must be dah only place in the woild I belong. I started delivering papers there, an' I got involved with Spot Conlan. He gave me what I needed to forget. I finally wasn't alone. Yah know, he got involved with somethin' a while ago, a shootout. Hope he made it out ok. A bunch of his guys were brought in. That's why I'm here. I wanna kill the guy that fired at Spot. Conlan's a good guy."

Race had gone oddly silent. His face was very pale and he looked stricken.

"What's dah mattah?" Jack removed the application of the shirt to Race's shoulder, worried he might have hurt him.

"Nothin'." He mumbled. "I uh, I nevah met Spot Conlan. Got dis close." He made a gesture with his thumb and forefinger. His voice was shaking, like he was lying. "Ah, well, I got my people." He offered weakly, eyes sliding shut as he drifted.

A shiver wracked his frame and Jack pulled the blanket over him, realizing quickly what an idiot he was to soak his shirt. Kid would be freezing.

"Move ovah."

"Why?" Race clenched his eyes shut.

"Cause I says."

Jack climbed into bed next to the stiff younger boy. His muscles were tense and he shook with Jack next to him. But after a while his form relaxed and he fell asleep. Jack pried his fingers open, slipping the packet he'd had his eye on all night into his shoe. Jack didn't need the temptation- but neither did this kid. He couldn't believe he'd just told his life story to him.

But then, that's what brothers are for.

 **Yay! Got a pretty sizable chapter in here. Shoot me your reviews/ideas/ things you liked/ don't like. Thanks for reading guys, and thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter!**


	3. Once upon an Escape Plan

**I'm baaaaack!**

 **Thank you to everyone who reviewed, it really inspires me:) Sorry it's short. Anyway, without further ado,**

 **Enjoy**

Jack woke up with Race's arm bent up, crushed between his and Jack's chests. His eyes were closed, and Jack just watched as the sun came pouring on and lit up his golden waves of hair. Curls actually. He hadn't noticed how gaunt the kid's cheeks were, or how hollow his eyes until now. There was no color on his face except for a blossoming shiner that stood out in angry purplish-blue. Jack just wanted to protect him. But Race was a tough kid.

He rolled onto his back. Tougher kid than he was. Jack fell to low places sometimes, he tried things he shouldn't have. But he was a good kid- he never killed anyone yet… except he'd tried, but that would have been better for everyone. It didn't seem real. He could remember standing at the bathroom sink with the razor pressed against his wrist. Just a stupid kid. He knew now that his failed attempt was more than a memory, but a reality, because he'd lost Crutchie and lost his family and for what? Maybe Crutchie was out there. He still believed he might be, although he'd pretended a thousand times he knew better. The kid was probably an alcoholic by now, but Jack wasn't much better. He didn't like the drugs. He needed them.

His fingers curled around the plastic packet in his fist. Any moment the guards would wake them up and inspect them and their bunks. Jack wasn't ready. Race wasn't ready. He needed a few days at least to heal, but now that the school year was mostly over, and Jack and Race were on track without the need for summer school, they'd be working on service projects. Jack prayed it was enough to make up for whatever Race got beaten up for.

He sighed and folded the packet into a slip of paper, stashing it under the bed, in the furthest corner for a special kind of delivery.

….

Spot Conlon opened his eyes as a hand shook his shoulder, "Al'righ! Waddah'yah want?" He pushed himself off of the wall and leaned forward, rubbing his eyes. Since Jack had left, along with twelve other guys, he'd had to take shifts, which he was learning he mostly just slept through. Gallop smirked above him as he pulled out a note and passed it to Spot.

In watery letters it read,

 **Hardest thing I ever done, giving you this pack of heaven. But I wanna get out faster, an' maybe go home for a while to see if my kid brother is still there… we'll see. I gotta get out first. Speaking of, I met a kid named Higgins. Could you check him out for me? I want him to join an' get out with me, he could be a good asset, except for one little drawback, and I'll tell you about that later. Hey, but I'se got a way out though. I saw the schedule. Berrey Valley, at around 10:00 A.M. Got a man? You're a pal, Spot**

 **JK**

Glanced back up at Gallop. He held the packet of white power to the light, and shook it.

"Where'd yah get dis stuff?"

"Jack, directly." Gallop leaned on the table.

"Higgins… Higgins…" he wondered aloud. Suddenly Spot's eyes widened. He whistled low, "Jack's goin' in deep. We gotta send Louis and Malt with dah car before he gets to attached to the Higgin's kid. Make sure they get Jack and no one else, especially not Higgins. Here I thought we took 'em out for good." Spot stopped to study the packet. "I cain't believe he didn't keep it."

Gallop changed the subject carefully, "I… uh… I figure you didn't tell him everything."

Spot glared at the German boy. "How am I supposed tah?"

"You can't keep the gimp on the other side of the bridge forever."

"If Kelly knew he'd leave right away." Spot shrugged and said in a quieter voice, "we still need 'im."

Gallop made a noise of agreement. "So what are we doing?"

Spot looked up Gallop with a dark expression. His mouth drew into a grim line, as he tossed the packet of drugs at Gallop, who caught them up against his chest, "Evah been tah Manhattan kid?"

…

Race and Jack stood on the top of the world, looking over the great state of New York. They'd stumbled out of the bus and onto bright green grass somewhere in the mountains. Race stretched painfully and Jack pulled his shirt away from his skin. The air was already hot even though it was morning.

 _I hope Gallop didn't keep the packet…_ he thought. They'd brushed shoulders on the way out to the bus, and Jack, not questioning anything, had slipped the paper and drugs to him discreetly. Gallop had been dressed like a security guard. How he knew when and where to be Jack would never know. But Spotty had his ways, and Jack couldn't doubt them.

"Alright, listen up. Starting over there all the way into Barrey Valley, you guys are clearing a trail. A hiking trail."

Race inwardly groaned. Great community service. Sure way to teach him how not to become a drug lord.

He stepped into line with the other guys and got handed, rather roughly, a green plastic rake with more tongs on the end missing than not. Morris shrugged and smiled tauntingly as he turned to get to work.

Race worked as close to Jack as he could. His ribs ached and he leaned heavily on the rake at some points, trying to get his breath back.

"Race," said Jack in a tone that suggested normal conversation, "I'se got a car coming, I think. Spotty wouldn't let me down."

Race played along, smiling casually, "dat's good. What place?"

Jack made a gesture of waving him off like they were playing around. "Down in Berrey Valley."

"Get tah woik!" someone yelled.

Race pretend to say something funny, real low to Jack, "dats great. I'se in?"

Jack replied, his words buried in a fake chuckle, "Can you shoot?"

Race nodded, smiling broadly in great show.

"Welcome aboard operation Conlon."

Race tried to swallow the fear crawling up his throat. Escape sounded good. Spot Conlon… not so much.

…

Crutchie nodded thanks to a man as he walked away. Thirty-four new subscribers to the World just this morning. Today was a beautiful day.

He decided to go to Tibby's early for lunch, so he could try to make the lunch-break rush on a full stomach. When he got inside the other guys greeted him with whoops.

"Hey Crutchie, guess what?"

"Hey fellas. What?" He limped over and sat down, swinging his crutch to lean against the wall. "Dah usual," he told a thin, blonde server who looked to be his age or so. The kid nodded and left.

"The Higgin's gang is ridin' again. They're going to try to break their getaway guy out of Juvie." Mush announced.

"How's they gonna do dat?" Crutchie shook is head, "An' how do you know about it?"

"Woid travels fast if yah got an ear. Anyways, deys up in dah mountain's wit' some uddah kids tah make a trail or somethin' an' dey's gonna do a driveby. It's prime time too. Some of the guys are in summer school, but Higgins isn't. The group is smaller, it'll be easy."

The server brought back Crutchie's soup. He sipped a little, but it tasted horrible. Trying not to be impolite, he swigged down some water and tried to ride out the nausea that followed the ingestion of that awful stuff. But he didn't send it back; the server looked like he hadn't eaten himself much. Crutchie was too polite to take away a meal from him by getting a refund.

"Wish I could see it," Specs sighed. "Today's been slow. Only ten new guys. I can barely afford 'dis sandwich." He mumbled.

Crutchie cringed at how dry the bread looked. He slid Specs his bowl of soup while the other guys chattered. Specs happily accepted, and slurped it down obliviously.

"I heard Paris Higgins is quite dah looker!" Romeo said.

"Yeah, but she's wit' Andrew Lawrence. You don't wanna mess wit' dat guy." Mush replied, taking a bite out of his own sandwich.

Crutchie couldn't help but notice how the server bolted out of Tibby's and threw off the apron as he went. Crutchie turned to Specs to see if he'd noticed.

"Oh my God, guys!" Crutchie shouted as Specs slumped over.

"He's not breathin'!"

"What happened?"

"Specs? Specs! Wake up!"

"Call 911, Mush!"

"I ain't got a phone! Blink?"

"Hold on, I'm tryin….. Hello? Yeah, yeah, my friend jus' collapsed. No. No. Yeah, he is. No not breathing dat we can tell, an' he's out like a light. Ok. Ok." he gave the medics the address and everything blurred around in Crutchie's mind. Everyone was asking what had happened. All he could think of is what should have happened.

Someone had tried to kill him.

 **And so the plot thickens…..**


	4. Not Okay

**Wow, I am so inspired today! Lets roll with it!**

 **Thank you so much to my reviewers, and even those who read silently (I am often one of you)**

(earlier that morning)

Maxine Paris Higgins pulled away from the kiss almost before it was a kiss. Andy's eyebrows furrowed.

"Hey! What's wrong?" he put his hands out. His bloody face was scabbing and bruising- the last thing she wanted to do was _kiss_ it.

"Who beat you up?" she crossed her arms.

"...some guy."

"Don't try to pull that on me. I'm not stupid, Andy."

Slash peeked around the corner.

"Cherry woke up. She said she's hungry."

Paris groaned. She pointed at Andy, "You. Don't go anywhere."

Slash took in the sight of Andy. "So Race didn't want to visit."

"You could say that."

"Is he okay?"

"What do you think genius?"

Slash stuck his hands in his pockets. "Cherry was asking about him. Drugs haven't really worn off." he glanced around the drafty abandoned house. "She should go to a hospital Andy, she really should."

"I told Race she was paralyzed."

"Why would you do that?!" Slash stepped forward.

A gunshot sounded and the seventeen year old Slash's eyes widened in shock. He fell to the floor in a stiff motion. "That's why."

…

(picking up at the time of the last chapter)

Jack wiped the sweat out of his eyes and lifted another shovelful of gravel off the pile. He was spreading it out on the ground when he heard the squealing of tires on the barely paved road above them. Guards started going down, shot, and rushing to keep control.

He expected to see the infamous black jeep the Brooklyn boys had adopted a few months ago, but instead a rickety, low riding gold car was moving at top speed on the ridge above them. Gunshots were echoing all around as he pulled Race down onto the ground beside him. They landed hard, but Race jerked away.

Jack's eyes were wide and shocked through the blur of shots and screaming. Race's eyes were sad and somehow older. He looked like he understood what was happening, and it hurt. His hand squeezed Jack's.

"Thanks for dah time of my life, bruddah."

Before Jack could stop him, he was crawling up the bank, belly close to the ground.

"Race!" he screamed. The kid was probably in trouble. Who was that? Where was Spot? He had so many questions, but mostly he was afraid. Jack Kelly was alone again. All alone.

Race was grabbing hold of the luggage rack on top of the car and hanging off it as it drove away. He was crying; but Jack couldn't see anything through his own tears.

…

Race clung to the outside of the car until they reached the Train station.

He hopped off as they parked outside and Andy opened the door. Race's heart dropped into his shoes.

"Where's the uddahs? Where's Paris?"

"We're moving on."

"Whada'ya mean?"

Andy's fingernails dug into his arm, "We have some business in Mexico. We're taking a train to the nearest airport and getting out of here."

"What business? Where's Sniper and Cherry? Where's my family?!" he screamed.

"Shut up, you wanna get taken in again? I rescued you. They're fine."

"No, yah said Cherry was paralyzed! Dat's not ok!" Race pulled away, "You wanted to meet Spot Conlon in the foist place! Dis is your fault!" Race began to circle the car around the back.

"Where do you plan on going?"

"Home."

"You can't go back to New York. You made a promise to Paris. She never wanted to see that hellhole again."

"But not tah you! I'se gonna catch a train and find my bruddah, and den we'se gonna find his bruddah and we'll be a family. You took away Jack, and my sister, and Cherry, and you'se not gonna take Slash, because I'se gonna find him and save him from the hell you made us live in!"

"Oh yeah? I already got Slash."

Race froze.

"What did you do to him?" he turned around, and with fire in his eyes slammed Andy against the car, twisting his arm in back of him and holding him in a sort of headlock.

The man groaned, but wouldn't give. Race twisted his arm just enough so an audible snap sounded. The man screamed and relented, "I shot him!"

It hit Race like a ton of bricks. Andy lied about a lot. But he wouldn't be on his way to Mexico if this wasn't the truth. Race backed up, still in shock. He lowered his gaze to his hands.

Andy, cradling his arm and breathing heavy, backed up, away from Race. For the first time, someone was afraid of him.

"Did you…" he was afraid to say it out loud. He wouldn't be able to live if Andy had done to Slash what he had done to him, "did you touch him?"

"I didn't have time." he spat, sneering. "Not as much time as I wanted."

Race didn't even speak. He began throwing his fists at Andy's face. It took him back to the day when Paris was gone and Slash had taken advantage of him while he was sleeping... It took him back to the day he came and gave him that dreadful packet, which he realized only now that he couldn't remember…. What had happened to it? His mind flashed to Jack as his fists flew. Somehow through his anger he realized he was thinking _Brooklyn_. His best guess was that Spot had him.

Suddenly everything was so quiet it hurt. Race stumbled backwards. It was around noon, and the sky was milk white, heavy purple in the distance as it began to rain over the overgrown, mostly empty parking lot. He shuddered as he watched Andy's chest. It wasn't moving. His bloody fingers shook as he stood on unsteady legs to check for a pulse that wasn't there, and hopefully never would be again. He made his way shakily to the car door and pulled it open, retrieving a black hoodie from the passenger's seat. It smelled like his sister- like hairspray and cheap lavender deodorant and old buildings. And cigarette smoke. He careful rolled Andy's body under the car. He tried to tell himself he was still in shock- that's why he didn't care that he had just killed someone. Somehow it didn't matter that the police would find him and that the car would be inspected and he might be taken in again. He just wanted to walk away.

Rain began to fall as he entered the station.

As he walked he pulled the hood over his head and stuck an unlit cigarette into his mouth. People didn't realize the monster they were shouldering past. When he went to buy a ticket he froze. There was no money. He searched the hoodie pockets. Nothing.

"Here," a lady behind him held out a twenty dollar bill. His hand darted out and took it, careful to hide the blood.

"Thanks miss…."

"Plumber- Katherine." she stuck her hand out. "I don't bite."

"Umm, I got a cold. Don't wanna spread dah love." He smiled shakily. "Thanks though. You don't know how much I need this." He handed it to the ticket person, and while they ran in the back to check something, he turned around to face her. "Where you headed?"

"I just got a job in New York City, as a journalist for the Sun. You?"

He chuckled, "If yah can't tell by dah accent, I'm from there. I'm going to find my bruddah."

"To… find him?"

"Yeah. We… we got separated… he's dere with his guys, I wanna find him." He glanced at her honest eyes, and pretty face, "An' bring him home."

"Where is home?"

"I dunno."

"Well, if you ever need help finding it, hit me up." She took out a slip of paper and wrote two things on it; a number and an email address. He thanked her, saying with a little embarrassment that he didn't have either, but when he did he would give her a call or write a message.

And then, for Katherine Plumber, the boy in the line for a ticket to the Big Apple all but disappeared- for however long she couldn't know.

...

Crutchie sat in the waiting room of the hospital all day, surrounded by his brothers. At around 4:30pm, a doctor appeared and gave the crowded room of Paper boys the news they'd been holding their breaths for since Specs had disappeared into that white room.

"He's going to make it." She said, sighing. "But there could heroin. It's not uncommon. But whoever put that in his food had the intent of more than a practical joke. We restarted your friend's heart three times."

Crutchie closed his eyes and shook his head. He thanked the doctor and turned to Mush, Romeo and Blink. "You guys okay to watch him tonight?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I'm takin' a bus to Brooklyn."

"What? Are you insane?" Mush stood up. "You'll get yourself soaked Crutch!"

"No. I havta know. I havta know why I was nevah allowed ovah dere. I recognized the guy who brought me dah soup. He was a kid who gave me a soakin' when I tried to sell even near dah bridge. I'se not gonna let Specs suffah for nothin'. I'se gonna get dah truth if it kills me. And you can't stop me."

As he turned around, an hand fell gently on his crutching arm, "no," replied Blink softly, "but we can come with you."

Crutchie bit back tears, half of fear, half of wonder. How did he deserve these guys? "No. Stay wit' Specs." He turned to face the thunder and rain outside, "This I havta do alone."

…

The ride back to Brooklyn, Jack couldn't sleep. He tried, but the rain poured endlessly like the way he felt- heavy and dark. The jeep had come to rescue him from himself. It had been a massacre. The guy had killed twenty people, most of them guards, while driving, and the rest had ran. But Jack lay on the gravel, curled in a ball until. Louis picked him up and Malt held him close. Malt was a quiet guy, nearly twenty, older than the rest of him. But he was like a brother or even an uncle, and while he didn't show emotions easily, he pressed a loving almost paternal kiss onto Jack's head as the boy sobbed into his chest.

Now, as Jack got out of the car in front of the shared townhouse the Brooklyn operation was running out of, the relief and letdown mixed. With Louis' strong hand on his back, he faced Spot and with great relief.

"Jack!" the other boy sprung up from his bunk when Jack entered the room. The Brooklyn leader, although shorter than him, made Jack feel very small. "Are you good? Dey hoit you? If dey did we'll bust dere-"

"No Spot." He pushed away the rough arms and back slaps of congratulation for once again outsmarting the authorities. Jack sucked up the growing dread as he thought _all I want is a shot of something strong._

"I got just the thing."

Had he said that out loud.

His knees must have given out, because he was soon flat on his back in his old bunk, mind on Race, body taking in whatever Spot had given him in a glass of water.

In the backdrop of his thought he could hear the Brooklyn King's voice, "I know it's not the fun way, but you is starvin' an' you cain't have dat stuff on an empty stomach."

Jack swallowed the last drops of water and closed his eyes.

Spot turned to Malt. "Was it bad?"

"Yeah. He was alone, shakin' like a leaf. I don't think he knew, but he was callin' for 'Crutchie'. His bruddah?"

Spot put a hand to his forehead, "Yeah."

Louis pulled Spot away from Jack's hearing range, "Hey, boss, why don't you let 'im see 'is bruddah?"

"It's complicated-"

"-Conlon," Gallop entered the room in two lengthy strides, "some crips here to see you."

"What?"

"Yeah, come down. He's mad. Almost speared Ramrod with his crutch when he tried to send him away." The German accent was thicker when Gallop got mad. Spot waved him away and turned to Malt, "Stay wit' Jack. I don't want any questions asked, 'less I'se dah one askin'."

"Got it boss."

…

Race stepped off the train as the sun was 'd had a big delay and now the night was cold. But his feet were determined. He only stopped to wash the blood off his hands in a rain puddle on the side of the road.

Wherever Jack was, Spot would be.

And Race was coming to find his brother.

 **Yay! I am so happy with the way this is going. Sorry it's unedited, so it's probably full to the brim with mistakes and plot holes. Aaannnnnyyyyywwwaaaayyyyyy. Thanks for reading/reviewing. Please drop me a review if you can, it really makes my day!**


	5. Brooklyn's Here

**Fun fact of the day: I am exhausted**

 **Second fun fact of the day: this story is coming pretty close to twenty pages on a google doc. That's crazy (yes, this is me, the novelist-hopeful who has only ever gotten two chapters in before quitting. Beautiful progress. I'm totally jinxing myself right now. I'm gonna stop) Thanks to all my inspiring reviewers!**

 **Let's go:)**

When Crutchie limped off the bus he was in Brooklyn.

Funny that he'd never been; he could see it in the distance when he stood on the roof of the shared apartment he, Mush, Blink, Specs and the other guys all shared. Brooklyn looked more intimidating from there. Here it was just like 'Hattan, not at all the hell he'd imagined to be so bad he wasn't allowed in it. But darker. It seemed like no one liked streetlights, at least not on this street.

He realized this wasn't his _best_ idea. He was crippled. He was alone. He was only fourteen for God's sake. This was totally illegal but also thrilling. He considered stopping somewhere to stay the night, but then his mind wandered back over the bridge to a lonely room full of newsboys watching over their brother, who might die. And if he did, that was on Crutchie. He was still a little high himself from that one sip of soup, but miraculously could stand without wobbling too much.

No; if Specs died tonight, Crutchie was going to bring him justice. How, he wasn't sure.

...

Race saw Katherine one more time, leaving the train station in a green and silver subaru. Her hair was swept out of her face and the night lights of the city made her eyes sparkle as she smiled and waved to him one last time. He waved back, though barely, and began his trek through the city, letting his feet take him to the place Jack used to tell him about on those long nights at the Refuge. He could picture it. Somehow he knew where to go. In Jack's words, _...jus' a little place. It was crappy. Not much. Me n' dah uddah boys used tah split for rent, and dah landlord nevah figured dat we'se runnin' goods undah his nose. Like I says, it ain't much. We put a sign outside-_ he had paused and chuckled here _\- well, Gallop did. It says 'Dah Lodgin' House' in big green letters, all messed up. No one had dah heart tah tell him yah could barely read what it said._

 _Now don' expect no fancy rooms or a bed tah youse'self. But I want you to come someday… cause, well cause it's home I guess._

Home. Race pulled the hoodie closer. His home had been everywhere. His home had been in a tent in the woods; in an old car factory. In basements and old houses people had forgotten. His home had been a home at first because he had Paris. Because they could forget the car that killed their mother after the cancer that killed their father. Paris knew she wouldn't be able to make it for long alone, but she had lied to him. Andy was just a 'business associate' according to her. Race had tried to like him. But then one night he had put something in his food, he was sure of it. When he snuck over to Race that night the nine-year old couldn't move. He could barely talk. He remembered how he tried to scream-

-His nose was on fire as he crashed into something flimsy but surprisingly painful. After his head cleared he stood back, holding his bleeding nose, and saw that it was a green painted sign that said: "Tha Loging Hows". Sounds from inside were like feet running up stairs and things being thrown. And Jack? He shook away the shock of his memories and tried to focus on Jack. Time to make this right.

…

Jack woke up with Malt snoring softly by his bedside. He watched as the young man's face tilted away from the light of a cheap lamp that was slowly dying. Slowly, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. His blood felt thick and his face was hot. The rest of him was freezing- and somehow that felt good. Good? Not good… familiar. He groaned. He'd been clean for almost six months… or however long it had been since he'd met Race. He could do it again, Jack tried to tell himself. But right now, all he wanted to do was sleep.

He laid down, but his mind couldn't shut off. He heard someone yelling. Wood clattered to the floor in a room down the hall. He could tell it was wood. It was hollow and stocky sounding. Spot sounded angry. Something thudded against a wall. Jack wanted to move but he was so tired that he…

And then he was awake. Water dumped onto his head, and he sprung up in shock.

"Jeck! I'se been shakin' you for ten minutes!" Who was that? Jack glanced at the limp body of Malt on the floor. Was that-

Race?

He was definitely on drugs.

Jack passed out. Momentarily. He was up when a second round of freezing water flew over him, hitting his chest and arms. He shuddered and blinked his eyes open cautiously. There stood Race- and he must have been real- looking like he'd been through some kind of hell. His nose was bleeding and a pretty great looking shiner was still fresh on his right eye. His fists were bloody, although smudged like he'd tried to wash the dried stuff off. But then Jack's incredulous eyes saw his mouth. It twitched into the first genuine smile he'd ever seen on the kid.

"Hey bruddah!"

...

As they struggled down the hall, Race taking most of Jack's body weight, the older boy mumbled, "Where're we goin'?"

"Out. Away. Anywhere you'se wanna go! But outtah New York!"

Jack stopped trying to walk, "Wait, no! What about 'dis place? Dis is home!"

"And what about you'se bruddah? Huh? He might be out 'dere."

Jack looked down as they stood frozen in the dark hall. "Race I'se given up on dat. Crutchie's not comin' back."

Race came around front of Jack and took him by the shoulders, "Yeah, he is. We'se gonna find him. We'se gonna do whatever it takes. The woild will know about what happened to us someday, an' I'm not gonna let Crutchie disappear because we gave up on 'im."

Jack was trying hard to hold onto consciousness, "I don' wanna forget him… but Race, I don't feel him anymore likes I used to. Dat was a lie. An' I don' wanna live it." Jack lowered himself down against the wall. In the darkness he was small and thin; not the strapping hero Race had always seen.

"Jack," Race's eyes widened as he stood in disbelief, "don't say that! Dat's dah drugs, I promise. Crutchie's out 'dere and we'se gonna find him!"

"How? _Why_?"

"Because… because Spot Conlon took away my family, and tore dem apart, jus' like he planned. Now Cherry's paralized, an' Slash is dead, an' I don't know where Paris is," He sank down against the wall next to Jack.

"And dat Andy guy?"

Race looked down at his half-curled fists in his lap. The blood was still caked on. "I didn't mean to… it just happened. Everything he did to me. He killed Slash. He lied about dah meeting wit' Spot, I'm sure. An' he tried to get me tah leave Cherry. An I almost did. Now she's hoit bad, an' it's my fault." He looked away, "I killed him…" there was a painful silence, before Race added, "An' he did uddah things, Jack, terrible things. I couldn't stop him."

"Like what?" Jack asked quietly. Race was shocked he didn't hate him for admitting he had murdered someone.

"Nothin.'" Race realized his mistake. He should never have-

"-tell me Higgins."

Race closed his eyes. A tear slid down his bruised cheek. In his quietest vice he said the words he'd been too scared to accept. He had let them make him feel like such a no one for too long. He had been quiet since forever, and it hurt too much not to mutter, "He raped me Jack."

He waited to be alone again. To forget that he had Jack or the dream of another brother and a life he got to chose.

But instead of disgust, instead of the feelings he thought he would be feeling after being rejected by the person he knew as his brother, he only felt arms. Jack's arms. They held him tight and close, in an empty hall in a little house in Brooklyn. His voice came quiet and soft, a promise fuller than Race could have ever hoped for,

"I have an agreement to cut off with dah King."

…

Crutchie felt his crutch being swept out from under his arm, but he didn't feel himself falling until he hit the floor. Maybe that was the concussion. Probably the fact that he was bleeding out of his ear. He rolled over and looked up at Spot Conlon.

"I asked a question," he spat at the Brooklyn leader, "where's my bruddah?"

"Why'd you think he was 'ere?"

"Why wouldn't you let me ovah dah bridge? Why'd I see dis guy sellin' paper subscriptions to people who gave him payments in straight up bundles of cash? A lot of cash, Conlon." Crutchie spit out the blood in his mouth, "I knew dat guy. An' dat night I gets soaked, and told by dat gangling idiot ovah dere dat I can't sell near Brooklyn if I'se gonna 'spy around'. I saw my bruddah. I knows because I can't forget him, even 'dough I tried. Tell me what happened to him? Why can't I see him?"

Spot gave a look to his goons, and the three of them filed out. He sat on the rickety desk in the dim room and leaned forward.

"Crutchie Morris. You got a real name?"

Crutchie didn't answer.

"Well, you is a city boy. Tell me dis- do you have connections?"

"Friends yeah." He answered begrudgingly as he picked himself up. "One of which you almost killed tonight. It coulda been me. So yeah, I'se got friends."

"Dere you have it! You'se got _friends_. Now I got friends too. An' I got enemies. Now a few months ago I mixed wit' dah Higgins gang. Evah hoid of em? Deys big stuff. Or dey was. Anyways, I got rid of dem. But dey for dah most part got away, and some of my guys got taken in for it. What I'm tryin' tah say is dat you is dah enemy of Jack Kelly and he is dah enemy of you. He left you. An' if you pursue dah enemy, both sides get hoit. Dat's not a threat. It's a promise."

"How do you know dat he left me?"

"We're a drug operation idiot. Do you think Jack's nevah been high?" Spot smirked, "look, you need tah go before he-" Spot stopped himself and began picking at the edge of the desk. "I gave you a warnin'. Get out, or we'se gonna lose him… an you." He stood up and leaned in towards Crutchie. In a voice that Crutchie feel sick, he added, "Jus' lookin' out for dah little guys. Like dah _crips…_. Oh, like you."

Crutchie scowled. "You know what I hates about you Spot? You'se hidin'. You'se hidin' behind your guys, and dey suffer for it. An' you'se selfish. Jack's his own man. He probably doesn't know I exist, cause youse a liar. You might dump heroin in my food. Yeah, when you _make_ enemies, everyone suffers. I nevah picked a fight until right now. You might tie my legs together- wait nevah mind, Ise a _crip,_ you don't even hav'tah- dump me into dah riva- but you know what, I don't care what you'll try, cause you'll always fail if you make someone else do it. I'se gonna find Jack. I don't even know why I bothered to come tah you. You're a lazy, selfish crime lord who don't see dah hard woiking boys of dis city is sweating blood jus tah get a sub for four dollahs- well it's gonna change. Your operation has made it so dat people don't want tah buy from us. Dey scared dey'll get involved wit' dah law. An' yes, I'm only standin' here because I saw a hungry fella and gave him my lunch- but you almost killed him. No wait, you didn't, you'se German friend did. Bet dat feels good, Conlan. Bet it feels great tah get tah pass dah buck when you screw up!" Crutchie was face to face with Brooklyn itself. His heart beat in his throat as he said, "But you can't pass Jack around like dat. He was nevah my enemy. Only you an' your selfish little monopoly. I ain't bowin' tah dah king anymore." He swung his fist and caught Spot in the temple and mostly catching him off guard. The boy staggered back against his desk. Blow after blow, Crutchie stood straighter. He dropped his Crutch and fell on top of Conlon, savoring the way he tried to squirm away. The pen knife in Spot's shirt somehow came into Crutchie's possession, and what he did with it, he could never forget. As the blood was covering his fingers, he realized in shock that he had just murdered Brooklyn.

And then the door flew open, and he was being pulled off Spot, and he fell against the wall, breathing hard. A boy with dark hair staggered over to the fallen Crime Lord tapped his face, "Spotty, hey, who is dat kid? You okay? Why'd yah let 'im soak yah?" Jack's desperate, shaky voice filled the room with no reply.

Crutchie was too weak from loss of adrenaline to stand up. He reached for his crutch, and steadied himself on what he quickly came to realize was another human. He spun around with his crutch coming heavily down on the person's foot.

Race yelped and jerked his foot away, "Watch dat thing-" his eyes went up to Crutchie's, and Race felt his jaw go slack. Jack's eyes. In this other boy's face.

"He killed him," Jack muttered, "You killed him."

He began charging at Crutchie, but Race darted around the kid and stopped Jack.

"Get outa my way!"

"No, you don't get it, Jack!" Race tilted his head down and looked at Jack through his eyebrows to express how unrealistic this was going to sound, "Dat's you'se bruddah."

 **Okay. that was fun. We hit 21 pages! Yay!**


	6. All about Drug Lords

**Okay, we're approaching the last two chapters, but I'm planning out a sequel, so stay turned. It will be within this story, so it'll come to my followers as a chapter update, but I'm considering it a sequel because it skips like a year or so.**

 **Thanks for sticking it out with me, guys! Sorry it's so short, but honestly, I found a good place to stop, and I couldn't ruin it. I didn't have a lot of time to write this because I went and saw my friends performing in Our Town. It was aaammmmaaaaazzzziiiinnnngggg!**

 **Random fun fact of the day: I am related to Napoleon (no lies, don't mess with me)**

Jack was in the hospital for a full day and night to recover from the drugs he'd been given and the apparent shock he was in. He wouldn't speak to Crutchie very much, and couldn't speak to Race because the kid was a step down from the ICU. His beatings had been pretty bad and he was running a fever. So Jack just laid in his hospital room and tried to stand the strange shakiness and focus on watching people as they passed in the city below him. Somewhere in the hospital, Crutchie had told him, was a kid named Specs, who had overdosed uninetionally on heroin that was meant for him. This added to Jack's guilt, because he knew it was Spot's fault… which made it his fault, because in mindset he felt he would always be a Brooklyn boy. He was relieved that Crutchie was safe, but everything had come crashing down on him. He'd left the kid for dead. How could he pretend nothing happened? So for now he was quiet.

Crutchie would have none of it. He took care of everything, calling people and making arrangements with his roomies to have the two new additions join them.

Jack slept to forget his guilt. He slept in the hospital, and when Crutchie went to visit Specs, and he slept to avoid visiting Race.

When he left the hospital he didn't go back to Brooklyn. Crutchie took him in a cab to a house on a busy New York street, painted careful blue with the address 1899 in rusty silver numbers. Jack memorized the address, tipped the cab driver with five dollar that Crutchie silently dispensed from his pocket. When they got inside, the loudness of the house seemed to quiet. Crutchie told everyone that the loft belonged to Jack until further notice, and from what he could see, Jack realized that these boys not only listened to his baby brother, but they respected him. He thanked him and sat down on the bed. As Crutchie was leaving, Jack sighed,

"You knows I'se not mad at you, right?"

Crutchie chuckled, "Hard tah tell." He twisted his neck to look back at Jack and gestured jokingly with his free non-crutching hand, "deres a little black rain cloud everywheres you walk."

Jack folded his hands, careful to keep his fingernails away from his skin. The scars of his old self still streaked his arms and it was all coming close to being that way again. "Thanks. Yah know, for lettin' me stay here. I'se been awful to yah... I left yah tah get beat, stead of me. Den all dis I dragged you intah." I put his face in his hands. He wasn't ready to be a brother.

Crutchie looked away and shrugged, "I hasn't been much bettah." His mouth twisted and quivered, like he was fighting tears, and Jack's heart softened a little more, "Yah know, I nevah knew I'd kill him. Spot I mean. I'se sorry. It happened so fast I just-" Jack's arms held him close suddenly, and Crutchie saw in the world for the first time what he'd never been able to see before- he was home.

….

Jack pulled himself together enough the next morning to shower, suck down some sugarless, weak coffee with a tired grin at the bitterness, and call a taxi to take him to the hospital. He'd gotten a call the night before stating that Race was being released from the hospital today if an adult could pick him up. Jack was now eighteen as of a few weeks ago, he'd found out, so he answered in turn and was soon helping Race get into the taxi to take him home.

"Crutchie would'a come, cept his leg 's bad. Havta pick some Ibuprofen up for him." Jack told Race. The younger boy nodded, his pale skin and dark eyes prominent against the black leather seats. Jack wondered to himself how someone so young could have seen so much of this hellish world and not want to take their life. He felt stupid knowing he'd tried simply because of depression.

They got out outside a drug store, and Race sat down on a bench facing the parking lot. "I'se gonna sit here, Jack. You go on. I need tah catch my breath."

Loathe to leave him, but anxious to get him home with the medicine, Jack nodded and told him to stay put, like any brother should.

Race buried his face in his hands to hide the tears that wanted to escape his red eyes. He just wanted to sleep and forget. The sun was too bright, the air too thick and hot. His body still ached and he felt full with artificial help- medicine and words he couldn't and didn't want to understand. He curled up and pulled his jacket closer around him. A man walked past and slowed to throw his cigarette into the trash can next to the bench. Race's heart started beating faster when he slowed. Was he going to stop? But then he was walking away. Race berated himself and ran a hand through his hair, trying to stop the panic attack. Time warped into mangled panic and nausea and before he knew it Jack was next to him, rubbing his back.

"Wha's dah mattah?" His eyebrows drew together in concern.

"Nothin'," when Jack looked unconvinced, he lowered his voice so he could be taken seriously, "I says it's nothin'. Jus' dah medicine. It's makin' my head hoit."

Jack seemed satisfied only enough to whip out a box of painkillers. "Let's get home so you can take dese. Says you should eat em on a full stomach so I'se thinkin…." his voice faded away and was drowned out by the one in his head.

 _Just her? Why do that?_ He could see the glittering of Andy's snake eyes. _Why give up our Bonnie and Clyde moment? It was fun while it lasted, but I ain't gonna let you get between me and Maxine._ His breath was on Race's neck; he was right there all over again, and Race was paralyzed. He couldn't scream for help. He had no one to turn to. _She's much prettier._

All he tried to think on the way home was, _Jack's not Andy. He's not Andy. Jack's not Andy. Andy died._

...

Crutchie was on the couch reading a newspaper with his leg stiffly propped up with ice around his knee.

"It's worse?" Jack asked as he came through the door and saw Crutchie's usually neat hair tousled and sweaty, and pained, unconcentrated look in his eyes. He carefully folded the newspaper inside out, hoping Jack wouldn't see. He wanted to talk to him about this; but not right now. The pain in his leg made it impossible to move. He was just trying to get a glass of water after Jack left, and had fallen and been unable to reach his crutch for almost twenty minutes. But Jack didn't have to know that. None of the boys were around. They had left to sell subscriptions about three hours ago.

Crutchie then looked up to see Jack and a skinny boy who looked like death warmed over in a crappy microwave.

"Woah, Jack, I thinks you guys should sit down." Crutchie tried to move his leg to make room, but Jack and the pain combined quickly convinced him not to.

The boy, Race, who Crutchie barely knew but called Jack his brother, was looking around the entrance to the little apartment.

"Hows about you go up dah stairs intah dah foist room yah see. It's all ready for yah," Crutchie smiled from the couch.

Race thanked him quietly and did as he suggested.

Once he was gone Jack got Crutchie some water and gave him the pills, which he gratefully accepted. "Dere's somethin' in dese tah make yah sleep." Crutchie nodded and thanked him again. THey sat in silence for a long time until they heard Race's soft sobbing, muffled barely by the closed door.

"Jack, how old is he?" Crutchie finally spoke. He shook his head, "I thought all dah Higgins' gang was adults?"

"Nah. He's fifteen. Toins out day got a fourteen year old sniper tah cover dem- or dey did, who knows where she is now- a seventeen year old kid to map out escape routes and rear guard, and den dah heads is only Race's sister and her boyfriend. But, ah, try not tah talk tah him about dat."

Crutchie seemed to be thinking very hard, before he asked,

"Why not?"

"Crutch, Andy, dah boyfriend, he… he ah, he hoit Race. Real bad, in a way dat don't heal like bruises or broke bones. An' Race, well, he did what you did. Self defense. He didn't mean to, although he maybe wanted to. But so far nothin's evident, it ain't been brought to public attention. He's still sore cause dah rearguard was murdered by Andy and his sister's disappeared, and dah sniper, well, he liked her. An' she's paralyzed now, so he feels awful bad about it. He don't know where she is, an' he ain't been doin' so good. So try to avoid dah subject."

Crutchie closed his eyes and laid back, "Ok."

"Thanks." Jack patted him on the knee and waited till he was asleep to pick up the crumpled newspaper on his lap.

As he picked it up to refold it, a headline caught his eye and he stopped just short of passing out when he read it. He sat down and squinted, praying it was just a misinterpretation. But it couldn't be;

 **BROOKLYN DRUG LORD SEAN "SPOT" CONLON, FOUND MURDERED IN APARTMENT: ATTACKER AT LARGE, LINKED TO POSSIBLE FOUR OTHER MURDERS….**

Underneath the headline, his eyes scanned the article.

 **With bated breaths due to the recent murder of the crime lord who held power over the drug empire in Brooklyn, there is now surfacing information of four other murders in areas nearby in New York State that may be linked to this killing. In a parking lot near the Redclear train Station, 29 year old Andrew Lawrence, a famous recent addition to the now dissolved Higgins gang- another notorious drug running gang in New York's more rural chains- was found murdered under the Higgins getaway car, which was identified by the police and confirmed to be the same car in the failed Conlon-Higgins meeting nearly a year ago. No details are out on the cause of death, but it appears he was beaten to the point of being unable to defend himself and sustained three confirmed skull fractures.**

 **Then, discovered in an abandoned property in the woods outside Milroad NY, a seventeen year old boy identified as "Slash" or Daniel Triniman was found dead from multiple gunshot wounds to the arms and chest. The infamous sharpshooter was found next to his murdered companions with a blood trail indicating he was shot in another room and tried to prevent their murders unsuccessfully. The youngest murdered was a fourteen year old female sniper whose gang name was never publicly announced, but could be identified in a missing persons ad for a Lillian Roe. With them was found the body of one Maxine Paris Higgins, the leader of the former Higgins gang. With these gruesome murders having been committed in such a short time frame, the culprit is suspected to be Manhattan's once "reformed" drug king, "Crutchie" Morris.**

Jack's head shot up as his mind went dipping off a cliff and into confusion; his eyes darted to Crutchie. Crutchie Morris, drug lord? He crumpled up the newspaper and closed his eyes tight. Through his teeth, he couldn't contain a sharp mutter of,

"What the hell Crutchie!"

 **Yah. Sorry it's so short. Thank you sosososososo much to every one of my reviewers. I haven't gotten this many reviews on a story in quite a while, and it's amazing to write for an audience who waits with bated breath (don't say you don't. I can see you. I know these things:)**

 **Anyway, thanks for sticking with my torture-fest. I'm unreasonably mean to these guys, but I do it all in the name of love for you, so….. Yeah. I'm good. Cheers, and goodnight**


	7. I can't Spend my Whole Life Dreaming

**I think I've done a pretty good job updating this… (giggles nervously at my other unfinished fics) so… thank me with a review! Let's see if we can hit twenty reviews! We're on 14 I think… six more guys! I love hearing from you and I am so grateful and inspired when I do. This will be the last chapter in this section (I know I said there were two more, but I change it), and then I'll be writing the sequel within the story, but it will take place about a year after these events. I'll put up a prologue before the first bit of that story so you all know what's going on. Anyyywaaaayyy, on to the story.**

Jack was pulling on his leather jacket as the boys were coming home. Albert stopped at the door, spinning a cigar between his fingers, which Jack tried not to pluck from his fingers. The smell made him nauseous; but he wasn't the kid's father, and he was a new arrival. Albert payed rent same as the others, although according to them this was the first time they'd seen him in quite a long time, since he'd gotten a part-time job making pretzels, for which he was endlessly teased. But to Jack he seemed like a nice enough guy.

"Where you goin'?" he asked, leaning on the banister. Jack was pulling his converse sneakers on. Albert noticed the newspaper under his arm.

"Got a guy to see," Jack responded, donning his cap. "Hey Albert, could'jah do a favor for me?"

"Depends."

"S' about Crutchie. If he asks where I am when he wakes up, I'se seein' dah town."

"Sure." Jack was stopped from leaving by Albert's tanned arm. "But, ah, jus' for dah record Kelly… where will you be?"

Jack frowned, "I ain't askin' what you do in Uppah Manhattan every day. Man's got a right tah go somewheres without dah press followin."

"Yeah, but everybody knows what I do. You on dah uddah hand… look, I don't run dis operation. Dat's for Crutchie. I don't keep no secrets from him unless it's gonna keep him safe. So," he spit on his hand, "nuthin' more involvin' Crutchie, and I'se gonna let it slip. Deal?"

Jack tried not to groan. He couldn't promise that. But he smiled grimly and spat on his hand. And as soon as they shook, and Jack's eyes met Albert's, he knew he'd made a promise he could never keep.

…

Race jerked off his bed. He came to full awareness in a tangle of sheets with his skin clammy and hands trembling. He had to keep his eyes wide open to keep away the image of Andy reaching out to touch the side of his face like a girl might- lovingly, but disgusting to Race.

He found that he was in his undershirt, having fallen asleep on the bed Crutchie had directed him to. It was in a tiny room with one shelf containing a single copy of Robinson Crusoe and a little bronzed man with a fedora riding a horse that seemed to want him off, and badly. The statue had its back feet raised in a crow hop, and it reminded Race of the Jockey's he'd watched at Sheepshead the one time he and Paris had gone to meet up with a smaller chain of drug runners that had connections all the way to Boston if you squinted and counted siblings and friends. He'd leaned against the rail, only eight and a half, but still understanding that the horses always ran neck to neck in the very first few feet as they were plotting their course carefully. First, the sprinters drew to the sides and back, trying to reserve their speed for the ending. The stamina runners pushed to the front in hopes to stay there, vying for the inside rail, pushing and shoving. And then a horse stumbled. In a crashing halt, it flipped over it's rider as it fell, which spooked the grey mare behind it. She began striking out with her glossy hooves, catching clods of dirt and casting them over the perfectly groomed stretch ahead. The horse was mad, crow-hopping and swinging it's great powerful neck towards the ground, whipping it's head to nip at the passing thunder of horses as it caught the glimmer of the stirrups and shyed at the crop it's jockey had so tightly clenched in his strong fingers. As if in slow motion the memory formed into the image of the horse on the shelf. He wondered how far away Sheepshead was.

Pulling on a shirt, still shaking from his dream and how easily distracted he'd been, he sat on the edge of the bed shakily.

Looking down at himself, Race cringed at the nasty bluish-black bruise at the base of his neck, over his collarbone, and the way his ribs made him look skeltal as he inhaled, and even when he exhaled.

"I'se fine," Race shrugged his shirt all the way on, promising himself that saying it would make it so. He began buttoning the first three buttons. His hands were shaking too hard to get the rest, so he pretended to be worried about a hole in his shirt while he tried to calm down.

"Yah know, rubbing it ain't gonna make it go away," Albert smirked from the doorway.

Race jumped, and awkwardly let his hands fall to his lap. "Where's Jack?"

"Eh, no hello? You'se a strange one, Higgins."

"Don't call me that."

"Race?"

"Sure. Don't call me Tony though." Race stood up, and put his hand on the door as if to close the other boy out. But Albert persisted.

"Look, I hoid you fall. Is everything…" Albert made a gesture and a face that indicated some kind of comical normalcy. He tipped his hands like a scale, "ok?" he finally said.

"Yeah," Race smiled the best he could. "Now where's Jack?"

"He uh, he went for a walk."

"I might go with him."

"He's long gone." Race pushed past the other boy, and cringed as he bounced down the stairs, his headache increasing every moment. Albert ran to catch up.

"Nah, you shouldn't go alone, Race. You'll get soaked."

"Jack's alone." Race pulled on his shoes.

Albert cringed and said to himself quietly, "Not for long."

"Hmm?" Race looked up from his concentrated work of tying his shoelaces.

"Nothin'."

"Well I'd agree, cept I hoid yah whispering, and people don't jus' whisper for nuthin'."

"Nah. I just think you should stay here."

"Why?"

"Cause," Albert paused. Why should he stay here? Why did Albert care so much? "Cause Crutchie will be waking up soon, and we always have dah best talks."

"Good for you," Race looked at him oddly, "But I'se gonna go now."

As he left, Albert smacked himself in the forehead. Why did he care so much?

…

Jack found Gallop right where he expected; outside Sheepshead. Gallop was almost sixteen, but once upon a time- if that was possible- he had jockeyed here. Today was a Tuesday. Sheepshead was empty, and locked tight against a storm that purred and rolled on a distant mountain somewhere in the country. But Jack felt it and heard it, although no one could see it yet. He climbed over the back gate, and crawled under the stands, coming out through a panel in one of the lower boxes.

Leaning on the rail, staring at the muddy, dark track, Gallop's eye's were nearly closed. He appeared to be sleeping, but his chest heaved like he was in the midst of a horrible nightmare.

Jack hopped the rail and crossed the mushy track, leaning on the rail a few feet away from him, but facing towards him. He didn't hop to the other side because Gallop was Brooklyn and he was Manhattan now. Things weren't like they were before, as much as he wanted to scoop his former brother into a hug and just remember the good parts of a thousand yesterdays and all the yesterdays before that one.. But opposites, it seemed, they would have to stay.

"How well do you know Crutchie, Gallop?"

The boy's eyes startled open, but his mouth opened cluelessly, like he wanted to talk but couldn't find the words. He clamped it shut, but didn't look at Jack.

"Not well. I only saw him three times."

Jack pressured with silence.

"The first was in Manhattan. You had come to us, it had only been three months. Spot sent me to find out about your brother, so I left Brooklyn for three days to see what I could find out."

"And?"

"He was different. He was very small. The leader, um, Albert, he took him in and saved his life. I found this out by watching from a distance. Do not try to twist what I say, Kelly. I only tell what I know. I do not ever lie."

"Gallop," Jack glanced over at the tall blonde boy, "We'se like bruddahs, I lived wit' cha for such a long time-"

Gallop shook his head, "Let me tell you what I know because it is the right thing. But after that I do not want to remember Jack Kelly, or his brother Crutchie Morris, or Spot Conlan. I do not want to remember New York, because after that I do back to Germany. I was stupid to think I could have this dream you all have." he took a deep, serious breath, and looked down the track. "Crutchie was very important. But Spot would never do business with him because he was your brother. Spot loved you like a brother- he never had one and he was alone. He was more alone than he ever let you see. But Crutchie was called Kilts in the drug circle on a count that he had a way with the Scottish immigrants. He could always get through their thick heads and convince them, so he was called that."

It all clicked. Jack remembered Kilts. His hair had been brown then, light brown, fading to blonde. He remembered the sly smile from the papers. But it hadn't been his brothers smile, not the one he remembered.

"Kilts was fierce. He had everything he needed to build an empire stronger than Conlon's. But Crutchie wasn't fierce. He watched his friends trying to break their addictions and ending up in the river, jumping off the Brooklyn bridge. And then he tried to break his. He almost didn't live with the decision. He didn't want to hurt people any more."

Jack watched the other boy's knuckles whiten as he gripped the rail.

"But it was too late for that. The second time I saw Crutchie was when he was selling by the Brooklyn bridge. But I knew that he had been their night after night. He wanted to jump, but Spot never knew that. He thought Crutchie wanted to find you. And he did. Crutchie knew where you were, but you couldn't know about him. Spot tried to keep you apart from each other. It became an obsession. Anyways, that night I beat him up. I told him to go home, and never to come back. In that way, I guess I saved Crutchie Morris and killed Kilts." He scoffed, "But Kilts wasn't the hard one to kill. From then on, Crutchie never used Kilts as a name again. Even the papers print his name as Crutchie as a kind of superstition that he'll find you and beat you senseless if you do use Kilts. Well, the third time I saw him was when Spot got your note from Juvie, and the packet of Heroin. He only wanted me to slip a little into Crutchie's food. Just enough to distract him when you came back from prison with a newfound hunger for what I'd stopped. Spot was going crazy trying to keep you in Brooklyn. Why, I'll never know. Maybe he thought Crutchie would forget about Jack Kelly and turn to Kilts again. But I…" Gallop swallowed, "I put the whole packet in his soup."

Jack's heart beat faster as anger rose in his throat, "You little-"

"-don't….say it. I know what I am. Now they're pinning everything on Crutchie, and really it wasn't all his fault. Crutchie killed Spot, but he didn't kill those other people. But he'll take the blame for it anyhow, won't he?"

"Unless dere's anuddah way out, I'm afraid so."

"What about that Higgin's kid?"

Jack looked away, "You tried to kill Crutchie. He tried to kill Andrew Laurence. And he probably succeeded. Race had every right. You didn't."

"I was scared Jack. I wanted to do what was right, but I didn't know who I should do it for. In the end, no one won out. I could not simply bring back Kilts and destroy Crutchie. That would hurt us all. I figured the only way for Spot to stop using me was to terminate Crutchie. And I am glad now that I failed."

Jack's hand was suddenly on his throat, "I don' care dat you failed. I care dat you tried. Crutchie will suffer for all this, and you kept him from me, so it's your fault. None of dis woulda happened if you had just left me alone." His voice was low and tense, gathering like a storm about to pour rain and drop lightening on their heads.

Gallop's eyes became strangely calm, "You tried too Jack." He said through the tightness around his neck, "And I waited next to your bed for you to wake up. And I told myself if you never woke up then I could not stay alive myself. I told myself for all the stupid things you were, you were also my brother. And for all the stupid things I am, I am still yours."

Jack's eyes closed. Gallop was going a shade of unpleasant blue as Jack's hand withdrew.

"An' for dat reason, I ain't gonna take you down. Now get outta here! Go back home!" he all but screamed. His voice broke as Gallop disappeared. He knew that was the last of the German boy he'd see. What he didn't see was Race as he fell back against one of the boxes, having heard every word.

All he could think was that Jack had just blatantly said that he just wanted Crutchie.

 _None of dis woulda happened if you had just left me alone!_

The words suddenly weren't for the German boy who was now long gone. They were for him. He was the reason Crutchie would suffer for these murders, even if he was responsible for one, it was in self defense.

So Race, too, disappeared.

…

With the money stashed in their old hideout in pocket, Race caught the bus back to Manhattan in time for dinner. First he stopped at the train station and found himself staring at the schedule. Jack had said something about Santa Fe.

Despite the worry gnawing in his chest, he let a shaky smile come through. He could make this right, finally.

….

"Race, where've yah been?" Jack crushed him in a hug as soon as he came running down the street towards him. "We'se been lookin' for yah for an hour!"

"Sorry. I thought Albert told yah I took a walk."

"Where?" Jack's eyebrow furrowed. "What's in your pocket Racer?"

Race pulled out one of the tickets and handed it to Jack, "I know what's happening. We can leave tonight."

"You saw dah article?" Jack turned the ticket over and over in his hands, like it was a precious gem.

Race nodded, although that was a lie, he snatched it up. The sun long gone, and a shivering moon hung over them as streetlights came on.

"What about Crutchie? Dis is his home."

Race nodded, "And not for long if he gets dah blame and gets taken in. Yah know his leg ain't gonna help, he needs to take dis chance."

Jack whistled low and handed Race the ticket back. "Tonight?"

"Tonight."

…

They bundled Crutchie up and helped him into the car, with two medium sized suitcases holding everything they owned. When Jack started driving the reality hit Race in the face like a smack. He was running out of time.

Crutchie was sleeping when they pulled up to the station, but Race woke him gently and smiled at the way he tried to hide his excitement.

"I'se nevah been on a train before. Have you, Race?"

"One time." he helped the younger boy out of the car, "A very long time ago."

On the platform, Crutchie climbed on after saying goodbye to New York and disappeared as he hobbled into the train, looking wide eyed at everything until he found the seat he wanted.

Race handed Jack the suitcases off of the dolly, and when he returned from unloading Race was wheeling the dolly over to an employee. Then the young man stood with his hair whipping a little into his eyes in the strange light of the platform. He handed Jack the two tickets and stepped back.

Jack's eyes flickered darkly. "Ain't you… hey Racer you can't…"

Race turned his pockets inside out. "Go on Jack. Santa Fe's waitin'."

"Race, I ain't gonna go-" the train whistle cut him off as a tear trailed down his face. He tried to get off, but Race stopped him.

"Crutchie."

They both stared at each other.

"You saved my life," Jack said quietly. "I can't leave you."

"Funny, I thought you saved mine."

The train lurched away, Jack hung against the cold steele. Everything was real and bright and blurry. And time seemed to stand reverently still as he watched his brother on the platform, getting smaller and smaller. Santa Fe was getting closer and closer, foot by foot.

So how could home seem so much further away, vanishing quickly with the boy on the platform?

 **Well, that's it for part 1! Sorry I didn't edit it, so it's horrible and filled with mistakes. Also, sorry it took me so long to update, I hope it was worth it. We're at 16 reviews… so, party time! ( because it's always party time when people care you exist) Thank you to all you wonderful people, I appreciate you so much more than you could ever know. Every one of your reviews are just amazing and so inspiring, so thank you for sticking it out with me.**

 **Anyway, goodnight, and I hope you enjoyed this! Part 2 will be up soon I hope :)**


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